Paper Hearts
by LilithEros
Summary: Vergil likes to think the icy walls around his heart are impenetrable. You are determined to melt them down with of hot cups of tea, sticky notes and perseverance. Unfortunately for Vergil, your little methods are chipping away at his walls slowly but surely. He just doesn't realize it yet. It's only a matter of time before they come crashing down. [Vergil x Reader]
1. Chapter 1: Man In Blue

I've been planning a DMC fic with Dante and Vergil for a while (which is why Wolf in Sheep's Clothing hasn't been updated yet LOL) and then this idea started bugging me too.

Rea-tan's character in this fic is sort of an experimental version of the MC I'm planning in my bigger DMC fic. She's part of another game's universe (though my own sort of OC) so in a way its kind of a crossover, but not really. I drop a few hints about what she is and where she comes from, but I won't do a huge reveal just yet. Brownie points if you can guess what game universe she hails from.

Also, I'd like to do a survey... For the big DMC fic in the works, I can't decide if I want Rea-tan to be a single character to make the pairing a love triangle or to make two different characters and give readers the choice of picking one to be. Each will have her own little path in the story and will be paired with either Dante or Vergil depending who the reader chooses.

If you are interested in reading, please state in the reviews whether you'd prefer being a single character in a relationship between both men, OR if you'd like to choose between two characters and end up with one. It'd be most helpful thanks.

Anyway, please enjoy reading!

BTW, I've never played the games. LOL. Only watched YouTube vids.

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Chapter 1

Man in Blue

There is something satisfying about letting the heels of your black leather pumps click against the scuffed, patterned tiles of the floor. The sound cuts through the thick silence in the air and echoes against the high walls of the vast ancient brick church turned library. While you are a stickler for maintaining the kind of obligated quiet a library demands -particularly since you are the Head Librarian, in fact, and this is your domain of control- the lack of patrons today means you can make a little more noise than usual.

Your footfalls are not clunky, but instead light and spritely. The resounding taps are followed by a soft hum vibrating from your throat to the tune of 'Fly Me To The Moon'. You try to time your steps to the song playing in your head, the black flared skirt of your fitted a-line dress dancing around your knees as you make your way to the first section on your list of returned books to shelve.

The noises that you create are rivaled only by the steady drum of the summer rain against the domed skylight far above your head. The colors of the stained glass window panes are muted today by what little light filters through the dark storm clouds. The winged deities and idols of old depicted on the glass panels stare down at you with calm faces made austere by the gray light.

You pass by empty tables and chairs and finally come to pause before the rising shelves of the nonfiction section. You begin with the first corresponding genre of the book at the very top of your stack.

Yes, _stack_.

While it is certainly the norm -and what most consider to be 'practical'- to use a book cart to transport returns to and fro, you are not one who is relative to the term 'normal' in a human sense and find carrying them by hand is more time-conserving.

Today the pile of returns is surprisingly large, standing just a mere inch from the top of your head and obscuring your vision. With the supernatural strength gifted to you by the genes of generations before your time -who had strategically bred to achieve the body you have today- and your 'otherworldly' connections, you are able to carry the weighty mountain with ease. There is no one here to witness your Amazonian strength so you are free to tap into those inhuman abilities until someone walks through the doors.

Looking at the impressive heap warms the cockles of your heart knowing someone out there has been helped by your kingdom of literature.

The amount of books being lent and returned is typically low since few actually utilize the library. Within this scummy city, the brains of men and women alike are shrinking and deteriorating in correspondence to the number of bars, strip clubs, brothels and various riff-raff littering the area. They are becoming raw and primitive, relying on their most basic instincts of violence, sex, and hunger. Barely clinging on to humanity, they are not living but instead _surviving_.

Hardly anyone in this city holds any sense of sophistication and culture.

And yet despite how boring you find this to be, you are still here. Others would have moved away far sooner, however you are not one to give up so easily. There are still some who crave the kind of civilization and intellectual mana you provide by keeping this library. You pour your own funds into this establishment to keep it afloat using the large amount of funds you have accumulated over the span of a few centuries through tactical investments and meticulous planning. You are content with letting things stay the way they are. The pursuit of knowledge and enlightenment is your life, and you love this building as a mother loves her child.

Though you can't see above the precarious tower of books, you have memorized the entire layout of the library. You know every scratch on the floor to navigate your way in the right direction, each rightful place of every book carefully categorized by an assignment of numbers, and the vacant gaps between the books where the borrowed ones were once nestled into.

You continue to hum, your voice only slightly above the level of sound library etiquette dictates as you shelve books at a moderate pace.

The deluge of rainwater pouring from the sky outside makes you almost certain that there will be at least one or two people unfortunate enough to be caught in the storm actively seeking shelter under your roof.

But you have not heard the creak of the worn double doors at the entrance all day.

The gigantic clock face above your desk strikes four in the afternoon, and the extensive inner mechanism of the device causes the cracked brass bell on the far side of the building to toll.

"Damn, afternoon tea time already," you sigh, eyeing the remaining books you have yet to put away. "Tsk, I don't want to just leave this here. Oh well… work before leisure, (y/n)," you gently chide yourself.

Living away from your European birthplace for a few centuries has still not taken away the ritualistic habits you grew up with. There are some things that can't be changed in the passage of time. Enjoying a hot cup of Earl Grey with a refreshing wedge of lemon will always be rooted in your routine.

The thought of that and the cranberry scone you saved for the occasion fills you with determination to finish up swiftly.

When the vibration of the bell's last peal dissipates, your sensitive hearing picks up the signature groan of the library doors.

Curiously you peek around the shelves and raise an eyebrow in interest at the man entering.

You quietly cluck your tongue in approval as your eyes take in his broad shoulders and tall, regal stance. The shock of white hair atop his head hangs down over his eyes in dripping tendrils.

For a moment you mistake him for a similar looking man you have encountered a few times in this city: a devil hunter with white hair dressed in red leather. He has become an acquaintance of sorts; occasionally you run into him during the odd nocturnal jobs you take on part-time after closing up the library. While he has become familiar to you, the two of you are not always on the best of terms. Most of the time you have ended up rivals over the same job and are sometimes hired to kill each other -which seems to happen often enough that you are comfortable engaging in playful banter while at it- but those missions always fall through.

You are just about to call out 'Dante!' but stop yourself upon further examination of the man. His aura is distinctly different from the devil hunter you know. The bold, fiery rays that surround Dante are simply not there. This man seems the complete contrast, darker… much more calm yet chilling. His colors are at the polar opposite of the spectrum and his aura is thick, concentrated into a protective wall around him. There is an invisible thrum of power radiating from him much like Dante. Its pulse quickens your heart and sends goosebumps skittering across your skin.

You love a man with power.

A quick swipe of his large hand fluidly slicks back his hair and sends beads of water flying behind him, revealing the stern contours of his cheeks and the sharp angled lines of his jaw. His face is identical to Dante's but the obedient pointed peaks of his hair makes him appear almost severe.

This is a different male entirely.

His heavy boots squeak against the floor as he walks further inside. Water droplets slide down the length of his ornate azure coat and fall from the hems onto the tile, leaving a wet trail behind him.

The man's gaze travels over his surroundings before resting on you.

You perk up in an instant, momentarily abandoning your task to step past the shelves. You approach slowly as one approaches a deadly tiger in a cage waiting for his meal, carefully and with purpose. The distance between the two of you does not lessen the intensity of his eyes in any way. Coming less than five feet away now, you can see that his irises are an unnatural shade of arctic blue not unlike his outgoing doppelganger. There is an inhuman quality to the color as well, and the second he walked through your doors it became obvious to you he is of the same breed as Dante.

You stop at a respectable length from his personal bubble, clasping your itching fingers behind you. The waves of his strong energy licking against your skin is a challenge in and of itself against your prowess and competitive nature.

The sword at his hip does not go unseen by your trained eyes. A quick glimpse at the hilt and the curvature of the sheath tells you it is of the Japanese fashion, a fine blade that can only be held by someone with an eye for precision, lightning-fast reflexes and the strength to cleave a man in two without breaking a sweat.

 _Interesting_.

He certainly looks capable of doing these things, if not more, however you restrain yourself. It isn't proper to enter a duel without the other's consent, unless they deserve to be punished of course.

Carelessly leaving puddles and muddy footprints on your clean floor might warrant such a thing, but ever the gentlelady, you smile warmly and instead focus on assuming your daytime role as the Head Librarian.

"Good afternoon. Is there anything I can help you find today, love?" you inquire sweetly. You meant to use the word 'sir' but staring into his captivating blue optics elicited the use of 'love' unintentionally.

Oh, this one is going to be trouble for you; you can just tell.

The edge of his terse lips twitches to your amusement and a single brow raises slightly. He can probably hear the hint of an accent reminiscent of your homeland, the small inflections upon certain vowels that exaggerate and lengthen their sounds.

"No. I can take care of myself," he states without even a smidge of thanks. His frigid eyes regard you with utter disdain at the forefront as if the idea of being helped by you offends him. But you can see hints of curiosity in the way they slide over your person, calculating and filing away bits of information as he sees them, absorbing your womanly curves and toned limbs accentuated by your dress.

And there is no looking down on you. You stand eye level with him in your heels being naturally tall yourself, another inherited trait from your genepool.

Realizing this, the man seems to inflate himself, straightening to best your height by far less than a quarter of an inch. You almost laugh; it is a usual occurrence around men of his type, acting high and mighty when truthfully inside their tender egos are easily bruised and broken.

 _Alpha male. Real cute. Poor baby_ , you chuckle internally.

You maintain your smile and take a step back to ease his unconscious anxiety. You see his youth in this moment, the lines creasing his lovely face from ruffling his feathers inadvertently. It makes you giggle a little. He is probably about the same age as your eternally youthful visage, but he has an air of maturity about him that his other half does not possess, the intelligence clear in his gaze.

You doubt he is frozen in time as you are. A tiny push into his heavily guarded mind yields snippets of greenhorn ambitions and young arrogance. He has only been on this earth for barely two decades.

"I see, understood. However, if you are ever in need of service, please do not hesitate to call for me, love."

Again, that ever persisting 'love'. You are unsure if this is still against your will or if you're doing this now just to watch the annoyed tick of his yummy mouth.

With a polite nod, you turn on your heel and go back to your pile of books. You find the corners of your lips tugging upwards as you resume your humming. There is no doubt in your mind that he can hear you as indicated by the agitated clomp of his boots echoing far from your space in the library.

 _Wonder what his name is..._

You idly run through a long mental list of all the most masculine names you have ever come across over the 500+ years you have been alive and hum along to 'Fly Me To The Moon' once more.


	2. Chapter 2: Late Afternoon Tea

A little short, but I chose to cut this chapter here before the next part. I was debating whether or not putting the content for the next chapter in or taking it out completely. But somehow, my mind arrived to the scene and refuses to let go. You'll see next chapter. Hopefully it won't feel too rushed, idk. Anyway, I'm rambling. Please go on and read lol.

BTW, I haven't given up on WISC yet... lol. I love Adachi, but my brain has shifted focus momentarily and has been flooded with the need for DMC hehehe. And I've been taking a break from writing for a bit, trying to connect back to myself and my fam. I tend to live in lala land thinking and thinking about stories and I'm trying to pull myself out of that so I can focus on the present.

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Chapter 2

Late Afternoon Tea

 _Perhaps it starts with an S..._

Your brow furrows as you cast a not-so-secretive glance at the mysterious newcomer from the open doorway to the small kitchen area you had commissioned years ago for the purpose of preparing your meals during breaks. The room is a few paces from your desk, the area a prime spot to view nearly the entire space of the library.

 _Hm, no… maybe something stronger… K? R?_

You nibble on your lip, your mind turning over and over to solve this mystery as your hands busy themselves with preparing a tray laden with all the fixings for a light afternoon tea. The tea set you have chosen to use, like several others you own, has been in your possession since the Victorian age and is one of your favorites. The design is custom-made, fashioned from fine china with hand-painted amethystine Devil's Trumpet flowers blooming against a black background. The handles and edges of each piece are lined with shining gold, and the tray and pot feature all these same qualities to complete the set.

With the arrival of the stranger, you thought it only polite to serve him afternoon tea as well. He doesn't seem to be the type to visibly show he is cold, but just looking at him soaked head-to-toe gives _you_ the sniffles. On wet dreary days such as this, nothing can compare to the warmth of a good cup of tea.

He sits at the solitary table engulfed in the shadows between the 'Legends and Myths' and 'Religion, Spirituality and Occult' sections, engrossed in a thick leather bound volume that damn well takes up the entire width of the square surface.

You hadn't coined him as a spiritual man. Perhaps a big history and classic literature buff, yes, but the book he is reading as well as the small stack of tomes at the upper corner of the table involve religious mythology and the supernatural; you can recognize the covers even from afar.

Maybe he is all these things. Technically myths are rooted in history, so it seems to fit him regardless.

His leather coat still glistening with raindrops is now draped over the back of his seat and you see that he is wearing a black vest-like shirt with a navy cravat tucked inside the neck. The sleeveless garment shows off his pale muscular arms that rest at either side of his book and fits snugly against his well-built torso. He is easily one of the finest of male specimens to walk into your library and you can't help but be enticed by him.

Good-looking, strong, AND intelligent. Now this is a man worthy of your attention.

And this doesn't happen often.

A wistful sigh escapes your lips and before you are completely conscious to what you are doing, your hands reach for a pen and pad of sticky notes.

The tip of your pen glides over the topmost note in a disgustingly lovesick fashion befitting of a young teen who scribbles the name of her crush in all her notebooks.

Once satisfied, you peel off the piece of paper and stick it on the saucer beneath the cup intended for your handsome new patron.

It's time to play a new game.

The second you come into his peripheral vision, the blue-eyed man fixes his glacial stare on you. His gaze is silently demanding why you have cluttered his personal space with your presence. You plaster on a smile.

"I've brought you some tea and a few things to nibble on. I wasn't sure what your preferences were, so I simply prepared a small variety of sandwiches and digestives for you to choose from."

You set the tray in the space unoccupied by books and place his tea cup and plate of finger foods just above the book splayed before him within arm's reach. Normally you frown upon food and drink around the books, especially since he has chosen such delicate and old first editions, but you trust the young man not to be inattentive of his eating habits. You just cannot picture him dropping crumbs or spilling his drink on himself or the books. Even in his wet state, he retains a sort of perfection that you suspect is seeped into his soul.

"Unnecessary. I do not require any sort of sustenance at the moment, nor do I remember asking you for it. I wasn't aware this was a tea parlor," he scoffs, his eyes narrowing and mouth settling into a deep scowl. You merely snicker and continue serving him, unfazed.

"Oh, it's not, dear. However, I'll just leave all this here in case you change your mind. Even the most dedicated of scholars must break from their research from time to time." You give him a little wink as you pour the tea from the elegant round pot. "This is one of the highest quality blends of Earl Grey on the market, imported of course. You may add lemon or sugar to it as you wish, but it's best you drink it while it's still hot."

You can feel him trying to burn a hole in your head with his stare but he says nothing more. You want to ask him his name, but you doubt he would freely give it without a real reason. Besides, it is much more fun to guess. You want to see just how close you can get before the reveal.

Up close, his facial resemblance to Dante is uncanny. It is so strange to see this hardened expression as opposed to the lazy grin the devil hunter usually wears. This man must to have some kind of blood ties with Dante. Most likely a twin, but you couldn't know for sure. Dante had never mentioned having a brother.

If he is a twin... then his name would probably be related to Dante's. It is a common practice to connect twins by name whether it be through rhyme, the same starting letter, or a certain theme.

 _Hmm… D could work for him as well, but… I can't see them being a matching pair. Nothing rhymes with Dante so… maybe a theme then. Dante is an uncommon name. Alighieri comes to mind whenever I hear it... Ah, his shoulders are tensing; I should probably stop staring at him lest he attempts to strike at me…_

"If you're quite finished, I would like to continue reading. In peace," he grounds out. "Do not disturb me again, girl."

Girl? _Girl?_

Your age is nearly half a millennium more than his and you have the ability to summon an array of nightmarish creatures to devour his body and soul and carry whatever remains to the deepest pits of Hell… and he has the audacity to call _you_ 'girl'?

 _It's all right. You look good for your age. He doesn't know_ …, you remind yourself and take it as a compliment, stuffing down your pride as a centuries old practitioner of the dark arts.

"I'll leave you to it then, _love_."

Satisfied with seeing the arch of his slender brow and the disgruntled twist of his lips, you pick up your tray and begin to walk away, your hips swaying with purpose.

 _It's V. Definitely something with a V._

You smile and happily make your way to your desk to enjoy your portion of the afternoon tea.

 **xxx**

The back of Vergil's head prickles with awareness of eyes watching his every move.

He is content with leaving his tea untouched, letting the steam gradually die as the liquid grows cold after three hours. Only then does he allow the slightest smirk to lift his lips a fraction, taking care that his face is turned away from your gaze.

 _Damnable woman._

You have no business putting this stuff in front of him. It will just go to waste and he will not blindly take the chance that any of it could be poisoned.

Besides... Vergil, the eldest Son of Sparda, does not sip tea and nibble biscuits from gaudy floral dishware.

The heady bouquet of bergamot oil floats around him in a sickening cloud and Vergil has half a mind to chuck the teacup out the window. Or perhaps at your head. Followed by Yamato, pointed end first right between your lovely eyes.

Yes, that is a most satisfying image. He would enjoy sinking his blade into your supple flesh.

There is just something off about you. Vergil had sensed it even before he came inside the library, something powerful… something that _rivaled_ his own strength, maybe even bested it. When he crossed the threshold into the building he could feel the sharp tingle of magic warding the doors, another red flag. It had pushed against his demonic blood, but didn't repulse him completely. Perhaps that is the only useful thing about being half human.

One look into your eyes- unnaturally old and deep with wisdom on such a young face- and he knew.

You are far from a normal human being.

As to _what_ you are… now that is the mystery.

Vergil would very much like to experiment the extent of your powers and dissect you both figuratively and physically, however, there are much more pressing matters at hand. He doesn't have time to indulge in such trivial pursuits. His hunger for more knowledge about his father spurs him on to move past the distraction that you are and continue with his quest.

He takes a moment to glare at the teacup but notices the sunny corners of a piece of paper peeking out from underneath. It is out of place against the elegance of the porcelain and obviously the small square is not a doily.

 _What the hell?_

Cautiously, he lifts the cup and sees the marking inked onto the note. At first glance, he mistakes it for a hex mark of some kind and his mind jumps to the conclusion that you have an intent to harm him. Your wards at the entrance had tipped him off you were able to use magic.

But when he studies it further, he almost facepalms.

His fingers twitch as he restrains from doing so and lets out a huff of breath. You had drawn a large girlish heart. And that is all.

Vergil whips the note off the saucer and replaces the teacup none too gently, effectively chipping the fragile china.

 _Serves her right_ , he thinks as he crushes the offending slip. Feeling it crunch and fold easily between his fingers is strangely gratifying as if he were squashing your real heart.

Foolish, foolish girl. Vergil does not soften to the childish acts of a secret admirer. He is a creature devoid of any sentimental feelings. They serve no purpose but instead are heavy burdens. Weaknesses.

Vergil is not weak.

He will not succumb to your feminine wiles and cutesy gestures.

The man drops the tiny crumpled ball of paper into the full teacup and stands, shutting his book.

There is only so much nonsense Vergil can take in one sitting.


End file.
